Chapter 4 - THE SAFE HOUSE CONCERTO
Concrete and Contraband
Three hours later, the skiff drifted into the shadow of an abandoned fish-processing plant ten miles south of Faye’s property. The building was a rotting carcass of corrugated iron and barnacle-encrusted pilings, long forgotten by the state.
But it wasn't empty.
As the skiff bumped against the creaking wooden dock, two men appeared from the shadows of the upper deck. They wore the same dark suits as Salvatore’s team, but these men carried long-range rifles.
"Sir," one of them said, helping Salvatore up onto the slick wood.
Salvatore didn't answer immediately. He stood on the dock, his body shivering uncontrollably from the early stages of hypothermia, but his expression remained as hard as flint. He looked down at Faye, who remained in the boat, her hands still clamped around the aluminum tiller.
"Get her up," Salvatore ordered. "And get some blankets. If she dies of exposure, Dante will have my head."
Faye was dragged up the stairs into the interior of the old plant. It was freezing inside, the air smelling of old fish oil and wet concrete. But in the center of the main floor, a sophisticated command post had been set up. Satellite monitors blinked in the dark, and a medical gurney sat beneath a bank of high-intensity halogen lights.
On the gurney lay the man from the jet.
Dante Moretti looked different in the light. His face was pale, his head wrapped in thick white bandages that were already showing a circle of fresh blood. A portable IV drip was hooked to his arm. Despite the wires and the monitors, he looked less like a victim and more like a sleeping king. His features were sharp, aristocratic, and utterly ruthless even in sedation.
"Is he stable?" Salvatore asked, walking over to the medical team.
"The fever is down, but the lung infection from the fuel water is a concern," the doctor replied without looking up. "He needs a hospital, Salvatore."
"A hospital is a graveyard right now," Salvatore said. He turned to look at Faye, who had been wrapped in a heavy wool blanket and forced into a metal chair near the monitors. "Miss Callahan. Welcome to the inner sanctum."
Faye pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, her teeth chattering. "I don't care about your sanctum. I want to know when I can go home."
"Your home is gone," Salvatore said flatly. He pointed to one of the monitors. A live satellite feed showed a thermal image of her coastline property. The house—the old, beautiful cedar home her grandfather had built—was a brilliant, blinding white square on the screen.
It was burning.
Faye stared at the screen, her heart stopping for a long, agonizing beat. Everything she owned, every photograph, every memory of her family, was being reduced to ash in the middle of the Oregon rain.
"They didn't find you, so they torched it to ensure no evidence remained," Salvatore said, his voice unusually soft. "I am sorry for your loss, Miss Callahan. Truly. But as I said before... you are in this now."
Faye closed her eyes. When she opened them, the numbness was gone. In its place was something hot, dark, and incredibly dangerous.
"Who did this?" she asked.
"Anatoly Morozov," Salvatore replied. "He wants the shipping lanes Dante controls. And he’s willing to kill everyone on this coast to get them."
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Faye stood up, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. She walked over to the gurney where Dante Moretti lay. She looked down at the man she had dragged from the dark water, the man who had brought this ruin upon her life.
"Wake him up," Faye said, her voice shaking with a cold, controlled rage. "Wake him up right now."
